Ride a Pale Horse (37 page)

“True,” said Vasek, and burst into laughter.

“Hey—keep it down!” Bristow warned him. “Sounds carry.”

“A most careful man,” Vasek observed with approval.

“A hungry one.”

“You’ve had a busy day—no time for lunch?”

“Like you, I’m sure.”

“Yes. A difficult day. A difficult week. You will want to hear the details—”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll have many questions to ask.”

“And you’ll have many answers to give. But,” Bristow said, “why don’t we leave that until later? First we’ll eat and then we’ll talk.”

“For a little. I need sleep as well as food.”

“Don’t we all?” It was nine o’clock now. By ten, Bristow thought, I can stretch out on a real bed and relax. Vasek was making only a skilful pretence of eating and drinking until Bristow had finished half a plateful of stew and a glass of wine. At last he set to, ate with zest. Supper was over in thirty minutes.

“Coffee keeps me awake,” Vasek objected as Bristow poured two cups.

That’s the idea, Bristow thought. He drank and again noticed that Vasek waited, then forgot his objection as Bristow reached for the coffee pot and a second cup. A Byzantine world this man lived in. Real? Or his own creation? Did he really think I might drug
both
of us to catch him? If I had eaten little, would he have eaten at all? Bristow concealed his amusement, said gravely, “How do you get rid of the car?”

Vasek stared. “Car?”

“The one you left on the street.”

“That is not my car. I used it. Temporarily. It was parked—no one there.”

“Neat. But you took a chance.”

“I take chances.”

“True,” Bristow said with a brief smile. “How did you recognise me?”

Vasek lit a cigarette, sipped his coffee. “Simple. I had a description and a photograph—as well as your address and ’phone number—from one of your colleagues. I also know you drive a Camaro.”

“Which was parked out of sight from your car.”

“But I saw you enter it this morning. It wasn’t far from your door.”

“You’re an early bird.” Bristow’s light reply seemed to baffle Vasek. He said nothing. “In fact,” Bristow went on, “you’re early in everything, including your arrival in Washington. Brilliant. How did you manage it? Friday, late afternoon, you were a priest in Rome. Then—?”

“Then,” said Vasek, “straight to a bus station. A change of clothes, hair, passport, and I was on my way to Zurich on a tour. Another change in identity, and I was in Paris. From there, a new passport and alteration in appearance brought me to New York.”

At the latest, his arrival was on Sunday. And if he skipped Paris, took the Swissair flight from Zurich on Saturday morning, he could have been in New York early that afternoon. Bristow said, “Fabulous. Did you run into any trouble—any precarious moments?”

“In Zurich, yes. But only a brief alarm. I left the man—a Czech agent who could recognise me—in the airport washroom.”

“Permanently, I suppose.”

“Most permanently.”

“What name are you using now?”

“Vasek. Josef Vasek.”

“The same as you used when you met Miss Cornell in Prague?” And let’s hope that Taylor’s sound-recorder is working loud and clear.

“Why not? It is my oldest name. I have a liking for it. I began my career in Prague, you know.”

“Before you started using all those other amazing pseudonyms that we’ve gathered in your file?”

“The Farrago file.” Vasek’s amusement grew. “Quite extensive, I’ve heard—again by courtesy of your colleague.”

And that’s the second mention of our mole. Am I supposed to be breathless, ask in wonder who it can be? Bristow said casually, “Did you train him?”

“No need. He was well trained by the CIA.”

“So you turned him. When?”

“Not difficult. He was at a period of his life when he was bitter—disillusioned—the Vietnam fiasco—”

“When?” Bristow insisted.

“After his wife died. A long illness that wiped out his savings. The kind of moment that makes a numbered bank account in Zurich sound attractive.”

Bristow was suddenly wary. Shaw a widower? He had never been married, or else he had concealed it damn well. “We know his identity,” Bristow said quietly.

“You know who he is?” Vasek was astounded. “You actually found Menlo?”

Bristow’s spine stiffened. He stared at Vasek, couldn’t speak.

Vasek pressed his advantage. “Or perhaps you uncovered the man Menlo had recruited to assist him? Also one of your colleagues, also in need of ready cash. Money is the root of all our successes, wouldn’t you say?”

“When was he recruited?”

“By Menlo? Two years ago, I believe. Wallace Fairbairn’s young daughter had a bad accident on her bicycle—a lot of expensive treatment needed to get her walking again. But you remember, of course.”

Bristow nodded. Fairbairn had borrowed money to meet some of the bills, but it had been paid back. Every dollar of it. That, Bristow knew. The two thousand he had lent Fairbairn had been returned within a year—a quiet transaction (Bristow’s stipulation), about which not even Emma Fairbairn had known.

Vasek took Bristow’s silence as a concession of complete failure. “Is it possible that you named the wrong man as your mole? One that Menlo had chosen for—what do you call it?—for a stooge. Shaw, I hear, is well suited for the part. An amiable idiot. But such men are always around.”

“You’re saying that Shaw was selected by Menlo to take the fall—if Menlo or Fairbairn was about to be discovered?”

“Yes. But you shouldn’t be surprised. There are many such cases.” Vasek was expansive in victory. “I remember in Moscow—” and he plunged into a long reminiscence about a similar dupe in his own department.

Bristow’s attention was far away. His first impulse had been to take that soft white face and smash it down into a coffee cup. But he had mastered his boiling emotion, now sat motionless and let his cold thoughts race. Vasek had made one mistake: he had underestimated the speed of Menlo’s intense investigation, the careful gathering of facts and circumstantial evidence that had let Bristow finish the job. Vasek didn’t even know that the report was completed, probably thought that Menlo’s death—he must have learned about the death somehow, otherwise he wouldn’t have lied so boldly—would even halt the investigation or at least cripple it while Bristow started the belated task of gathering evidence all over again. Nor had Vasek learned that Bristow was in possession of Menlo’s notes—a second mistake. Bristow was the man who had been out of touch, ignorant of what had happened during his absence in Rome. Let’s stay ignorant, Bristow decided as he began to listen to Vasek’s detailed anecdote. And stay alive.

“A very clever stratagem of the CIA,” Vasek concluded at the end of his story.

“Sometimes we aren’t entirely stupid.”

“But it failed,” Vasek reminded him.

“Well, we do. Now and again.”

“You are still thinking about Menlo.” Vasek was watching Bristow.

“Yes.” Bristow shook his head. “It’s hard to believe. You’ll have to furnish proof, of course.”

“Of course. Did you never wonder why he kept himself so much apart? He resisted all friendship. Even his holidays in Nova Scotia—by himself—in lonely places—” Vasek seemed to hesitate. “We met there. Twice. A most suitable rendezvous. No one to see us but the salmon and a few speechless peasants.”

Bristow felt sickened. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Now about you. You must leave here tomorrow—for your own security. We’ll take you to a safe house, see that it is well guarded.”

“Where will that be?” The question was quiet but quick.

“I’ve no idea. Nor do I know who will be debriefing you. Many people, I think, from other sections. You are a very important man, Vasek.” Bristow paused, said as a seeming afterthought, “Perhaps even more important than our political refugee who came asking for asylum four months ago.”

“The one who calls himself Gregor?” Vasek was casual. “He’s a friendly type—always says what he thinks will please you. But I hope your people will be on guard against that.” Vasek frowned. “Menlo wasn’t present at Gregor’s questioning, was he?”

“Well—he could have been. Gregor asked for asylum through him.”

“So Menlo vouched for him. Very clever. And Menlo no doubt persuaded his colleagues that Gregor’s statements are trustworthy.” Vasek shook his head in admiration of Menlo. “Where is Gregor now? Still being questioned? I did not think even his imagination could invent so much misinformation.”

“I’ve heard he doesn’t stay long in one place.” Not with two attempts made to kill him. “A matter of security.”

“I am relieved to hear your people take our safety so seriously. Mine will be a problem, too.”

“We’ve had other defectors besides you and Gregor. None have been terminated or abducted as far as I know. But then, I don’t deal with defectors. Only with words.” With lying words, Bristow thought. “Disinformation is my field,” he reminded Vasek with a smile. And I bet, he told the pale-grey eyes that were studying him, you have more fields of interest than that.

“How will you handle the problem of Menlo?”

“Not mine to handle. He’s had a bad accident.”

“Serious?”

“Could be fatal.”

There was no surprise on Vasek’s face, just mild amusement. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “your colleagues from another section have already handled the problem for you.”

Again Bristow restrained himself, said nothing.

“No more questions?” Vasek asked, preparing to rise.

“Not from me.”

“When do I leave here?”

“Well—I’ll have to make arrangements. No one expected you so soon. But give us a little time. We won’t delay. For safety, it would be best to leave when the light is poor.”

“It will be interesting to see how your people deal with my departure.”

“Yes, you can compare our arrangements with KGB methods. By the way,” Bristow said as he pushed back his chair and got to his feet, “did you write the three letters yourself? The letters you gave Miss Cornell to deliver to me?”

“Why do you ask?”

“They were masterly. One supposedly from the Secretary of State, another pretending to be from the Secretary of Defense, and a third—equally deceiving—from the President himself. A brilliant tour de force. They had your touch, I thought.”

“In that case, I won’t disappoint you. I composed them.” Vasek paused, added quickly, “Of course, I had no idea of how they were to be used.”

“You mean, with two assassinations planned to precede their publication?”

“That would only lead to worldwide disruption, to riots—anarchy. And war. Who could win a nuclear war?”

“Behold a pale horse,” Bristow quoted, then paraphrased, “and its rider’s name is Death, and Hell followed with him.” It was the first time that Bristow had seen Vasek perplexed, but the Book of Revelations wasn’t exactly approved reading in the Soviet Union.

In silence, they began to walk slowly into the hall. Before they would leave the area that Taylor’s recorder covered, Bristow halted to say, “There is a joint agreement—between Moscow and Washington—that the letters will never be published by either side. Can we trust that agreement, or is it just another scrap of paper?”

“Now you are being too suspicious.”

“If you had been caught or killed on your way through Europe, would it have been a broken agreement?”

“Possibly. But I am here. And I intend to stay alive.”

And not make an escape and call it an abduction? Return secretly to Moscow, have the letters published and catch us out? “We’ll make sure of that,” Bristow said and led the way down the hall. “Sorry we’ve no extra bed. But the sofa in the living-room isn’t too bad. Undress in the bathroom, where there is plenty of electric light and no window to give it away. Don’t open your curtains or the shade. And leave your door ajar to let some light into your room so that you can see your way around. Don’t want you breaking an arm with a fall over the coffee table.”

“CIA brutality?” Vasek asked with a laugh. He clapped Bristow on the shoulder and went into the bathroom, closing its door firmly.

Now he may try using his transceiver to reach the man who is waiting for instructions, Bristow thought. There will be no privacy in his room for any talk with a door ajar and Hansen sitting barely ten feet away from it.

On impulse, Bristow moved back into the kitchen and removed the large flashlight over the stove, then the second light from the table. In the dining area, the candles were out, but he dampened their wicks with the last drops of coffee. He switched off the kitchen’s meagre bulb, checked to see if the small red button was glowing over the back door, and returned to the dimly lit hall. Half-way along it, he handed one of the powerful flashlights to a surprised Hansen and bent close to him. “Take the flash to Taylor. Tell him I want to reach Doyle at eleven o’clock.”

Hansen rose from his chair, padded silently to the guest room, while Bristow waited, his eyes on the bathroom door. Hansen was back almost immediately, but Taylor was with him, too. Taylor was whispering, “Mr. Doyle will be out of reach until eleven thirty. Something is going down.”

Can’t have it all my own way, Bristow thought. “What is?”

“Didn’t say. But we got a patrol car to investigate your street—the dark-brown two-door near this apartment.”

There was the sound of movement from the bathroom. Quickly, Bristow pulled Taylor into the kitchen. They listened to Vasek’s voice bidding Hansen good night, and as silence returned to the hall, Bristow asked, “Anyone inside that car?”

“One man. Chauffeur’s cap and blue suit, waiting for a party to end, he said. Then as the cops began to search him, he changed his tune: he gave his name—Russian—and claimed diplomatic immunity.”

“What?”
Bristow recovered. “Did the cops have time to find anything on him?”

“No weapons—just a transceiver. They’ve moved the car and the Russian, taken them to the station to clear up this immunity business.”

“He went quietly?”

“Better that than being arrested for loitering with intent.”

“Okay, okay.” As they re-entered the hall, Bristow lowered his voice still more. “Any tricks, and use this.” He tapped Taylor’s holstered revolver. “Wound. Don’t kill. Pass the word.”